An Orc's Tale
by Tridentwatch
Summary: The peace after Archimonde's death lasted a short time. Now the Warcraft world is at war once more, not knowing a new threat is arising from the depths of the eternal nether. They need a hero to save them... someone like Uzumaki Naruto perhaps?
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE - JOURNEY TO THE OUTSKIRTS OF THRALL'S TERRITORY

The Farseer looked in the far off distance at the bleak grey sky. He could tell that there was going to be rain coming down soon, one of those freezing ice-sword rains. His clan was not going to be prepared for this, that was self evident. One look at their haggard, hungry faces, pale sunken cheeks, and skin that was once green turning yellow from dehydration proved this.

"We need to stop – find a cave or something," He muttered under his breath. Their only warrior, a young grunt named Buss heard him with his sharp ears. A benefit of youth that most of his thirty or so clan members did not have.

"We do," Buss said in his deep throaty voice. He had come to the Farseer's clan last winter, seeking refuge from the great Black Rock clan. The clan had been on the point of starvation and Buss had saved them all by his hunting skills. The Farseer couldn't refuse him a place in his clan – it was an honour thing - even though death would surely follow from the Black Rock hunters. "I know a cave around here. The cave is a bit small, so we'll have a tight squeeze."

"What about the Black Rock hunters? Have you heard anything from them?" The Farseer said as he followed the rough mountain trail. His clan followed behind him and Buss proudly to his side like an equal.

"You mean in the towns we passed through? Of course. The Black Rock is the only clan big enough to stand up to Thrall the Warchief now, and they are at war making hit and runs to the various villages around the fortress." Buss said.

They were heading there to the Warchief Thrall. He was their only hope from starvation. The mountains and grasslands which once held huge forests full of game and food was burnt down by the undead. Food was scarce and water even more so. Thrall however had an enormous private forest in the Orc City's backyard. The people there lived well fed and happy, and Thrall was willing to take anyone in. The Black Rock opposed Thrall, did not want the orcs to become like the humans and live in one place. The orcs were more like human gypsies, they liked to be on the move. Thrall was going against tradition and that was always risky.

"Any chance we might meet them?" The Farseer asked, riding peacefully on his old snow-white wolf. Buss walked alongside him. The rest of the clan walked as well, in silence. Only the chief could have the clan's famous wolf. Their only prized possession if the rags on them was anything to judge by.

"We might," Buss said. "If we do we will have to fight. You ready, Mogra?"

Mogra was the Farseer's name, one that had been used a while ago. Now it fell out of use because the clan only called him chief, a sign of respect. Buss however was different. He was young, strong, and could easily take on the clan's feeble warriors. Their survival and protection depended on Buss, so they gave him respect as well, calling him Boss. Mogra felt discomfort when they did that, but was not in a position to stop them.

Buss revelled in the attention, and grew a bit arrogant. He thought of himself as an equal to the Farseer, though in an even match the Farseer could easily take Buss on. . . with magic. Physically however, Buss was on a much higher scale.

Equal chiefs in a clan, the Farseer mused. That's a recipe for disaster. But what could he do about Buss? Nothing, they needed him.

The Farseer realized he had been silent for too long, Buss was looking at him funny. "I am," The Farseer said and went back to his silence, listening to the long departed spirits of the burnt down woods. 

"This place gives me the creeps," Buss said looking around. "All the trees are black and burnt down, blighted land this is."

"I see what you mean," The Farseer said, "But there's nothing we can do. This is the best way to stay unnoticed by the Black Rock Clan."

Buss said angrily, "I am not afraid of them, you fool!"

"I never said you were. However do you think your axe is a match for ten of theirs?"

"No, I don't think, I am sure. My axe is more than a match-"

"Then you are the fool," The Farseer said sharply. "I will not risk my clan for your petty feelings of revenge."

Buss's features darkened. "What they did to me, I'll never forget. I will pay them back, Farseer, and nobody will stop me."

"Nobody wants to. They burnt down your human –" The Farseer's face showed his disgust "-Consort. If we make it to Thrall in safety I might help you as well." The Farseer said, "To pay you back for your services to my clan."

"The least I can do, since I am part of your clan, am I not?" Buss said, his eyes suspicious. 

"Unless you are planning a coup behind my back and think I know about it, stifle your suspicions. Consider my help a reward for yours." The Farseer said.

Buss lapsed into silence. The Farseer rode steadily beside him, and they made good time on the forgotten mountains of Kaz' Modan, each deep in their own thoughts. The Farseer knew however that Buss's rage and enmity with the Black Rock clan would cause problems later on, but there was little he could do about Buss's emotional problems now. He had his own clan to worry about.

The rain started falling and sure enough, Buss had led them to a deep dark cave. "I came upon this on the Black Rock's exploring parties. I was part of them so I know the lands like the back of my hand."

The clan members cheered. There was Kalzaro, the one with the gut and broken teeth. He clapped his glarny callused hands together. The others followed him. Kalzaro was a wild card, a crazy man. Nobody knew what he would do next, he was unpredictable. That was what made him a threat to the Farseer's feeble position as clan chief.

Mogra had held the position of chief after stabbing the old chief in the back with a human lance in one of the skirmishes between the humans and the orc parties. He was the strongest back then, so nobody opposed him. Nobody except Kalzaro, the herb specialist. Unfortunately Kalzaro was too valuable, too favored among his clan for him to cut off his head like they did in the old days. The white wolf clan was becoming smaller and smaller. The wolves had died and now the only wolf they had was the one Mogra rode on.

His ruling had been disputed, full of controversies and not always respected. But they had learnt. And a quick whipping on a lonely night made Kalzaro quite obedient too. Then Buss came along and everyone started getting bolder.

The Farseer shuddered and called to the spirits for comfort. As usual he felt the rushing power, now it was faint, when he was younger the power was stronger. The power of the elements at his beck and call. His skill with them made him a formidable opponent, so he was sure that Thrall would be more than willing to take him in. Buss as well. 

The rest of his clan. . . Kalzaro for sure, but who wanted feeble ex-warriors too old to get their own food? The Farseer would try his best of course – if he was going to take Thrall's place, he would need at least a small base of power to start with.

But Buss was a big problem. He would cause trouble, the Farseer just knew it. He could see through his people with ease that comes from experience and long hard observation. He could almost feel Buss's ambition and ruthlessness, which reminded him of his own when he was younger. No, he hadn't lost his ambition and ruthlessness.

Buss reminded the Farseer of himself and he didn't like that feeling. Didn't like that feeling at all.

For dinner the clan had leftover salted mutton, and a bit of dried vegetables they had found in a surprisingly fresh field a few miles back, near the amber-colored river that ran right into Hell's mouth, the old home of the dragons. Then they spread their straw mats, hastily made and patched, and slept. Many could not go to sleep, they were on half rations and hunger was the biting snake that kept coming back with a vengeance.

The Farseer himself tossed and turned, not because of the lack of food. He had enough food for himself because he was the chief and he deserved it. Buss had the same amount as well, the Farseer noticed with some consternation but that was because he had hunted the meat himself and an old orc tradition said that the hunter always got his share.

The Orcs were traditional people. Tradition kept them disciplined and alive in many cases, especially the war against the humans and then the war against the undead. The Farseer himself had not participated in that, remained on the outskirts, watching and waiting for an opportune moment. That moment had not come.

But one will, the Farseer told himself. One always comes along, sooner or later.

At dawn they packed their bags and went back on the trail. The journey was slow and hard, snow, rain, hot sun – they all passed through. Walk, walk, walk, the clan was at the brink of exhaustion and the Farseer didn't feel so good as well.

"Be on your guard, Buss. The Black Rock might be around here." The Farseer said to the young grunt beside him.

Buss nodded, "Yes, I'm surprised we didn't run into them already. We are after all on the edges of Thrall's territory."

The Farseer felt a bitter taste in his mouth. "I feel the same way. The spirits are strangely silent, I do not like this feeling."

The Spirits were warning him, but of what?

CHAPTER TWO – THE AMBUSH

The day was hot and the orange sun bright overhead. "Let's stop here." The Farseer said. This place gives shade because of the tall trees."

Buss nodded, he looked grim and had spent the day in deep silence. Preparing for the coming confrontation that was almost prophesied in a stone tablet. He gripped his axe tight enough to turn his green knuckles white, and his face showed an expression of utmost hate and determination. The Farseer respected hate, the emotion of anger and hatred brought strength – corrupting strength like those of demon magicks, but strength nonetheless.

And if Buss couldn't keep his cool, use logic and be emotionless, well more power to the Farseer. The Farseer raised his old wrinkled hand, and the clan obediently stopped. They were like dogs, and would follow his every command. Or Buss. A thought appeared and doused his inner fire like sand on a log fire. This thought proved to be cold and struck a sharp pang of insecurity in his heart.

"Stop," He called out. "Make camp here. Orga, Jarga, be on the lookout for now."

Two twins, Orga and Jarga, both big and mute – they had their tongues cut off by the Farseer for disobeying one of his orders a long time ago (but they held no ill will because this was also Orc tradition and this Orc clan respected tradition to an utmost degree) – stood facing each other. Between them the clan camped, a rough fifty meters or so. Now was the time for an afternoon nap that would last until evening. They would make good time at night.

Orga and Jarga looked around obediently, taking a few walks this way and that. The hot sun made them feel tired and sluggish but they did their best to keep on alert.

"Buss, I feel something is off. Perhaps you should stand guard as well." The Farseer said.

"No, I need my rest," Buss curtly replied and rolled out his straw mat. He laid down, put a hand over his eyes and went to sleep.

The Farseer noticed everyone else was trying to get some sleep as well. He complented just slicing Buss's throat, end the threat before it began. 'No, I need him. He is a fair enough warrior.' The Farseer thought and went to sleep as well.

They slept for a few hours, and Orga and Jarga did not notice a group of fourteen grunts, all big and strong with black bandanas and red smears on their cheeks, sneak up on them until they sliced the two twins' throats. The watch guards fell without a noise. Nobody was alerted.

The Fourteen grunts were from the Black Rock Clan, they had large axes that they used with great skill as they went about systematically chopping each of the clan member's heads. They killed the entire clan soundlessly. The Black Rock Clan, numbering no more than five hundred or so, caused great trouble for Thrall's fifty thousand orcs. Now when one would witness their skill and the training they went through, one could see why.

Then they crowded around Buss and the Farseer. Both of them were in a self-hypnotized trance, trying to get the best of their little nap. The outskirts of Thrall's territory were the most dangerous places in the world because of the war between the two factions. There were a bit of undead creatures and other beasts scattered around that could cause danger.

Together the two warriors, only good warriors of the feeble snow wolf clan, decided that the best way to travel would be in the cover of the night. So they slept trying to get the most of their little naps and the rest of the clan went obediently along.

They did not count on being watched in secret by a team of Black Rock Assassins who waited until they were asleep to kill the entire clan.

At last only Buss and the Farseer was left. The Black Rock Assassins crowded around them, and quietly debated what to do. They used sign language and made no noise so as not to alert the two.

"These two might be useful to the clan, we should see if they can be of use." One of them said. He was the leader and they all listened to him. Nodding with determined resignation, they decided they would knock the two unconscious and tie them up, then drag them across the blight desert into their secret havens. If they did not wish to join they would be killed at once.

They used the flat of their axes and hit the two repeatedly on the heads. The two woke up with sharp cries of pain, and at once fell into unconsciousness. Then the Black Rock Assassins used rope that they always carried around their waists and tied the two up on long poles which they used to carry the two like pieces of meat roasting on a fire.

They trudged through the blighted land, going at a pace ten times faster than that of the ex-snow wolf clan. Soon they reached a stream that was overlooked by an enormous mountain, about the size of a hundred grunts stacked on top of each other.

They jumped over the stream in big leaps, and if the Farseer or Buss felt a jerk or a bump from the landing, they didn't cry out. They were unconscious after all. Over the stream, into a dark hole at the base of a mountain. Then into a maze inside the mountain. The inside was dark, unbearably so for any human, but the Orcs could see just fine.

They took the twists and turns that many of Thrall's warriors got lost in, but the Black Rock Assassins knew the way. THE WAY had been burnt into their memory by their trainers, the seven blade masters of Black Rock clan.

Then they reached a large chamber that was wonderfully lit by torches held in place by big metal rings, the kind that the humans once used to manacle their Orc prisoners. Those slave type rings. The Black Rock had invaded the human camp, led by Jaina Proudmore who unfortunately for them escaped on a ship going back to whatever last vestige of humanity there was left on this damned planet., and burnt down the human buildings, killed the human knights and footmen and took the women (and sorcerors) as cocubines. The blade masters had forbidden them and anyone caught with one had to be executed. (Thus Buss's abandonment of the clan.)

In the middle of the chamber was seven large thrones that were in a circle so at least one blademaster faced each direction. The Seven Blade masters had an air about them. An air of superiority and power that made the best grunts in the land shiver with fright. Their grey cool eyes, an opposite of those possessed by fiery demons from long ago like some of Thrall's camp, showed pure logic and calculation. They thought with their brains, not with their emotions like most Orcs. There were few people who could do this, the Farseer was one of them. 

"What do we have here?" One of the blademasters said as he bounded forward. He was in front of the fourteen Black Rock Assassins in a flash, and chuckled as their eyes widened in fear and their knees buckled together. "Well?"

"We have prisoners." The leader of the group croaked out. "One of them's a Farseer!"

The Blademaster's eyes widened. "Hey come here," He said, and gulped.

The other six joined him at once, they were like flashes of comets in the black sky. "Oh? A Farseer? Thrall is a Farseer, is he not?"

They started nodding and muttering to themselves in low breaths. "This could be a great asset to the clan, if he is powerful and in control of the elements."

"Yes, he could teach us his magic. Then we can dispose of him."

"A wonderful idea, now if only…" 

The Black Rock Assassins waited uncomfortably until finally the blademasters looked up. They glanced at the one beside the Farseer on the floor. "Who is this?" One of them asked.

"Don't you remember?" Another blademaster said, chuckling. "This is the Orc who had the concubine. The one who ran away."

"Ah, of course." Another blademaster said, his eyes lit with joy. All the blademasters looked alike, like copies of each other. Then the blademaster's eyes turned cold. "Kill this one," He said turning to the Black Rock Assassins.

The leader of the Black Rock Assassins obeyed at once, took his axe and with a clean cut chopped off Buss's head. Blood spurted out, which the blademasters delighted in. "Wonderful. Carry on with your scouting," One of the blademasters said and dismissed the Black Rock Assassins.

The Black Rock Assassins felt some relief – a lot of relief – at having been out of the presence of the famous seven blademasters, said to have faced Thrall and his Farseer guards personally and lived to tell the tale. The famous seven were insane, completely out of their skulls. One day they would order an attack on Thrall, the next they would order a complete retreat and attack a human village with full force while ignoring Thrall's orcs. They never stuck to one plan, flowing like a stream of water.

The only consistency was that they were to be feared. That was obvious to even the most dull Orc. The other duller orcs were long dead (With the exception of Thrall who was not actually dull).

Yes, the Black Rock Assassins were glad to have got out of the presence of the Seven. And they felt a bit of pity for the old Farseer as well, even though he was the enemy.

Who wouldn't feel pity for a prisoner of the Famous Seven?

NEXT CHAPTER: CHAPTER THREE – INTERROGATION

CHAPTER THREE – INTERROGATION

The Seven Blademasters were tall, taller than most orcs, had no hair and bald heads and a large sword on their backs made from black obsidian metals that came from the far reaches of the Twisting Nether. One of them cut the ropes of Mogra the Farseer and used a hand seal – a type of magic that they invented, not always effective but sometimes it works – to heal up the Farseer's wounds a bit.

The Farseer was bleeding on the head and body in various places, skin skinned from being dragged across the Blight Desert in the hot sun and bumped in the sharp walls of the Labrynth inside the mountain. The wounds healed at a fast pace thanks to the Blademaster's healing seal. Then the Farseer woke up, cracking one bloodshot eye and examining the Seven.

"A thousand curses!" He exclaimed angrily and tried to get up. One of the blademaster's pushed down with his feet on the Farseer's chest, stopping his mid-rise.

"Stay still, old fool," The blademaster said in a firm voice that brooked no argument. "You are in our lair, the Black Rock Clan."

"What happened to my clan?" The Farseer croaked out. "What – where are they?" 

"They are dead. They were weak and pathetic, a disgrace to Orcs so they had to be killed. You were heading to Thrall, weren't you?"

The Farseer started to shake his head. There he was, a Farseer lying on the cold rock like a dog. How humiliating. One of the Blademasters lifted him up by the scruff of his neck and shook him, hard. "Don't lie to us, you mongrel."

"Yes, we know everything." Another Blademaster said. His everything dragged on…. "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeveeeeeeeeeeeryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyythiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing." The voice made the Farseer shiver in fear.

"Look, let me go. I mean you no harm so-"

"Fool!" The blademaster holding him said, and thrust him to the ground. The Farseer fell to the rock with a hard thump. He felt his ankle twist, and grimaced in pain. "No, don't show pain to them. They will use it, think of it as a vulnerability." He muttered to himself in his mind and did his best to hide it.

"How weak. What a fool!" One of the blademasters said. "The only reason you are alive right now is because you can be of some use to us." He walked over to the Farseer and grabbed his neck, not squeezing but not lightly either. "Are you a Farseer?"

"Ye-" The Farseer croaked out. The Blademaster's grip loosened. "Let me go, please."

"No. You will teach us everything you know. Then perhaps we will let you join us, let you prove your loyalty… perhaps."

The Farseer knew this was a lie but to disobey meant instant death. He was sure of it; the blademasters were ruthless. But the Farseer had his cunning as well, "to teach will take a long time, and I cannot do this if I am not free."

The blademasters sneered. "What the hell are you talking about, you dumb mutt?"

A thought struck the Farseer, "Where is my wolf?"

"Dead, most likely."

The Farseer felt a pang of sadness and underneath that intense anger and hate. He stowed it away and did not let it show on his face; he kept his face cool and emotionless like when he played the politics game with his clan.

"I see, I think you want to learn how to control the elements like a Farseer, is that right?"

"Exactly," The blademaster said, one of them. He couldn't tell them apart and felt a bit disorientated.

"Okay, then. Training will take a long time, a few years at the very least." 

"What? No, you fool. You don't understand, we want the training to be over in about-" He looked at his friends – "A week?"

"No, a day." One of the other blademasters said. 

The Farseer started chuckling despite his inner instincts yelling at him to stop. He couldn't help the pouring laughter come out, teach someone to be a Farseer in one day? How ridiculous.

The blademaster got an angry look on his face, he ran over to the Farseer and booted him across the chamber. The Farseer felt his head pop as he was thrown across the room. He landed on the back of his head and fell into deep slumber.

"Damn, hope he is not dead." The blademaster said, but he didn't sound too sorry.

A few hours later the Farseer awoke, this time in a small damp cave that smelt of seawater and sulpher mixed together like a goblin lab. He was in the dungeons. There was a small window, a dug out hole in the hard black rock that overlooked a massive waterfall. There were trees, all sorts of trees from ferns to ashtrees to oaks, he recognized them from his studies of wildlife. The trees surrounded the waterfall and the whole scene was a beautiful sight, even for an orc. This place must have been an elf home before, but the Black Rock Clan might have invaded and forcibly taken the homes of the night elves.

His mouth was sticky and he had a pulsing throb of a headache behind his ears. He felt terrible like he had just drunk a cup of poison or perhaps hit in the head multiple times with a hammer. . . The memories returned to him, like arrows from a sharp shooting troll. His clan was dead and he had been kidnapped. He had seen Buss's head rolling on the floor and-

He felt sick. He was in shock, he could feel himself sliding into shock. Even though he was an orc and used to violence he felt sad and bitter – his entire clan was dead. So what if they were old, he knew most of them for a long time, all his life. He remembered old Zaman, the swords fighter. He was too old to wield a sword but he had taught Mogra in elemental sword fighting. He remembered Kalzaro, the herbs specialist. So what if he was the political rival to Mogra, he missed him as well.

"Snap out of this trap!" Mogra shouted in the deep silence that was only broken by the low whinding sound of the waterfall. "This is a trap made by my head. I need to think. I need to be lucid. I need to concentrate." He said to himself and examined his little cell. There was a small metal door in front of him, a window way too small to crawl out of behind him. There was a small brown chamber pot in the corner, and a metal tray where there was a plate of greenish salted meat that looked a bit spoilt and a rusty goblet of muddy water.

"Water," He muttered in amazement and whipped his head around to the waterfall. "So much water," He was awed. Water was worth more than gold now since the Great Burning of the Archdemon Archimonde from the War with the Demons. That was over now, but the world was still in a state of war – civil war between all the races. Arthas, the Undead King, was fighting the remaining human paladins in the North, or so the rumors said. The Night-elves were fighting some of the more ambitious druids, and the Orcs. . . were fighting themselves.

He took the goblet in his hands and started to drink. Small gulps at first, but his thirst was too strong. He drank it down in one great gulp and quickly ate the spoilt meat. The taste was bitter and salted, so he ate fast. Then he fell back, suddenly drowsy.

He had been drugged. No, not drugged, he was a master at poisons, having learnt them, interestingly enough from the now dead Kalzaro. He was not drugged. Just natural drowsiness, natural healing sleep.

He fell back and went into another deep slumber, his last thought:

We need a hero to make the world peaceful again. A real hero. . .

CHAPTER FOUR: NARUTO FALLS INTO A HOLE (OF TIME AND SPACE)

Naruto Uzumaki was a young boy – thirteen years old – and training to be the Hokage. Today his life was about to change. He looked forward to the Final Chuunin exams, having trained with Rock Lee for most of the time. He remembered how he went to Rock Lee when the green turtle boy was in the hospital. He had asked for training and Rock Lee provided, tears of happiness (Or so Naruto chose to think, he did not want to consider the other possibility) in his eyes.

Rock Lee had supervised his taijutsu, correcting his stances, his punches, his kicks. He saw to it that Naruto trained every day, twenty hours a day, non-stop except for the Free Ramen Lunches that the Ramen Man at the Stand provided for him.

Naruto and Rock Lee, both dedicated, both vowing never to give up. Soon Rock Lee began to heal from his injuries which were serious but not permenent. The doctors had told Lee that he would heal on his own with enough rest and ABSOLUTELY NO TRAINING. Surprisingly Rock Lee had listened, saying, "I can do more training when I am better."

Rock Lee had agreed to train Naruto at once especially when he heard that Naruto had refused the help of one of the best trainers Konoha had to offer, Ebisu. And so they trained the entire summer, Rock Lee supervising, and Naruto running himself to exhaustion.

Naruto was feeling confident and ready to do battle. He ate a large breakfast: Two fried eggs, a few fruits and vegetables and a big glass of milk. He was full, happy, and ready to be a Chuunin.

"I'm Ready!" He cried out to the world, a big smile on his face as he ran down the street at an easy pace. The training had been tough but his speed had improved tremendously and his taijutsu was very much above par. 

"I'm fighting that Byakugen boy, I will win." He said firmly as he entered the arena behind a crowd of civilians, and in front of another crowd of civilians. He looked up at the sky, his teeth glinting in the light. Then his expression of happiness fell, because the sky was dark and bleak. Naruto thought it would rain soon. "Dammit, the weather just had to spoil my day!" But he went in and took his place beside the line of champions that would be fighting in the Chuunin matches.

"Hey Shikamaru!" Naruto yelled, "Are you ready for this?"

Shikamaru gave Naruto a cold look, "No." He sighed. "This is so troublesome. . ." 

"Yeah I know what you mean, Shikamaru. I think there's going to be rain." Naruto said.

Shikamaru looked up lazily in a catlike fashion and yawned. "There might be lightning." 

"Lightning?" Naruto said, "Lightning!" His eyes widened, he backed up a step fearfully. "My match is the first one and it's with Neji. Lightning will ruin it, and I worked so hard this summer and-"

"You will be fine, Naruto." Shikamaru said, mainly to shut him up.

"Okay," Naruto said nodding and grinning widely. "You're pretty smart so I'll take your word for it."

Shikamaru sighed.

The referee, a pale sickly looking man who had a cough and probably a cold, walked in the front of the arena. "Uchiha Sasuke hasn't shone up yet, but we will be starting the match without him. If the two competitors-" He looked at the piece of paper in his hand – "Uzumaki and Hyuuga Neji could stay in the arena, the rest can leave and watch from the stands."

Neji and Naruto faced each other, Neji looking bored and Naruto looking determined. "I will defeat you," Naruto said. "For what you did to Hinata."

"Right," Neji drawled, "Let's get this over with."

The crowd quietened. Everyone was watching. The arena was bare except for the referee and the two fighters.

"Let the match begin!" The referee shouted and jumped a few dozen feet back in the corner of the arena. Neji tensed, "I will finish this quickly. You are not worthy of my time."

His fingers glowed with blue chakra, veins popped in front of his white pupil-less eyes, and he had a smirk on his face. Then he charged.

Naruto growled angrily and charged as well, nothing but anger and determination within him. They clashed, Naruto blocking Neji's fists and striking at him with his legs. Neji was quite adept at Taijutsu and blocked all of Naruto's attacks. Then he jumped a few feet back, breathing hard.

"You are pretty strong. But I suppose that's to be expected – you have been training with one of my team mates after all." Neji said. "But this is it, fear my next attack now. 'BYAKUGEN 64 POINT ATTACK!'" He cried and rushed at blinding speed. He aimed for the tensuki points and hit most of them.

Naruto blocked some of Neji's attacks but couldn't block them all. His tensuki points closed up and he fell to the ground.

"You see, Naruto Uzumaki? You were fated to lose. You will never become Hokage – there are thousands more capable then you." Neji sneered at Naruto with contempt. Naruto felt like punching him but couldn't move. Then he turned his back and started walking away.

Rain started splattering, all at once. Naruto was groaning in pain, trying hard to get up. Red energy, throbbing and pulsating started to form around him. He looked like a fireball, burning up. And the rain did nothing to quench the fire.

Then lightning struck. . . Right into Naruto.

The lightning bolt was electric blue and blackish and struck like a rattlesnake. When the bolt struck Naruto there was a SHROOOOZK sound and then . . . darkness.

The whole world turned black for Naruto. He felt like he was floating in space and then he started falling.

Outside, in the Arena, everyone gasped as they heard a strange sound like paper ripping. A tear in the fabric of time and space. There was a sharp line like a sword cutting through canvas, and blackness started to show itself. Naruto's body was sucked in like it was a black hole, and then the tear was gone.

The whole arena was silent, staring in shock, wondering what had just happened.

They would never see Naruto again.

NEXT CHAPTER: CHAPTER FIVE: WHEN YOU HAVE A FARSEER FOR A FRIEND, YOU DON'T NEED ANY ENEMIES


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER FIVE: WHEN YOU HAVE A FARSEER FOR A FRIEND, YOU DON'T NEED ANY ENEMIES

Naruto fell. He was falling and he knew nothing except the abyss that he was falling into. Everywhere, there was blackness. Not the sort of inky blackness but rather empty space. He felt distorted and strangely like he was in a dream. He couldn't think right. . . but he knew that he was falling.

Then he landed on wet mud. The fall hurt. Naruto cried out in pain, his mouth sticky, his hair plastered with wet mud. His orange outfit was all dirty as well. He got up, and looked around, muttering incredulously, "Where am I?" Then he fell to his knees in exhaustion, and slept.

Inside the dungeon, Mongra the Farseer woke up just in time to see an orange blur fall from the sky. . . the orange blur was a human. He gulped, startled. Was he a wizard sent by the humans? An emissary to the orcs? Who was he?

He tried to climb out of the window, should have tried it long ago, and sure enough the window was too small. Mongra knew only one thing: he had to get to the human before the other orcs. He had to know why the human was here. Then he could kill him and his knowledge would ensure his survival, if only for a bit.

The Seven Blademasters would kill him immediately if they found out that to be a Farseer was a set of skills that would take decades to learn. And a Farseer was no fool. Mongra just had to get to him.

Use your powers, a thought whispered to him seductively. His head was warped and disorientated, sleepy and tired. The spoilt meat was hell on his old body, but he did not let that stop him from concentrating. He took deep breaths, sat cross-legged on the cold floor and chanted a mantra, "Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, heed my call! Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, heed my call!"

He felt the rush of power in his veins, first starting from his heart which was already outpacing itself. His entire body felt hot, hotter than a pail of boiling water, and full to the brim of energy. Elemental energy. He had to use the energy before it hurt him.

He was reluctant to use his powers because using his powers would leave him weak and waiting for an opportune chance to escape would be a much better choice. But something had come up: the human. He had to get to him, because knowledge was power and he would be holding a key that would be valuable to two parties, the Seven Blademasters and Thrall the Warchief of the horde.

Yes, that was a good plan for him to survive and Mongra had always been a survivor. He concentrated inwardly, feeling the pulsating energy inside his heart. In his mind the energy was a small blue ball, he visualized the ball going to his arms and then he stepped back, facing the window.

He ran up to the wall, and punched with all his might with his right hand, the blue energy concentrated on his fist. The wall thundered and crumpled into dust, but he could feel his knuckles and finger bones break at once from the pressure.

He gasped in pain. "Concentrate, concentrate, Mongra!" He said to himself, and cracking an eye open he tried to think despite the blinding pain. The human was a child, he noticed as he started to walk forward. The human was at the foot of the waterfall, water spraying over him. He was unconscious and completely wet as well. Mongra grimaced. He would be wet pretty soon and he hated being wet.

He walked, as fast as he could. 'I wish I was younger!' He lamented in his mind. He heard something and looked back. The mountain was crumbling!

"What the-!" He gasped. No wonder he felt so tired. He had a bit of the old magic still left in him, he thought with a grin as the mountain fell to its knees.

He concentrated inward again, the energy was still there but only a little bit. He wished he was younger – that would mean he was stronger – but you couldn't get everything you wished for after all. He used the energy to do a little trick called far sight.

His mind sought out the room where the seven blade masters were. . . and at once like a dream he saw what they were doing.

"What the hell is happening?" One of the blademasters said.

"The mountain – Earthquaqe? We should go, get out of here. It could be one of Thrall's forces."

"That bastard. Guards! Guards! Go see what is happening."

"Right away, my lord." A grunt said, he was big and strong but had an air about him that said he wasn't exactly the brightest star in the sky.

"We are at the top of the mountain, if there's an earthquaqe well… we should get out of here too."

"Farseer!" Someone cried. The blademasters whirled around. There was the old warlock, and he looked quite alarmed.

"It's Farseer magic, my lords! I can tell, I know it."

"The Farseer in the dungeons?" They started rushing out.

That was all Mongra needed to know. He hurried faster and stood over the boy. Behind him he heard the mountain rumbling as it fell, bits and pieces at a time. His magic had been strong after all, but now he had not much energy left. Exhaustion was seeping in.

He picked up the boy in one of his thick arms. Thicker than a human arm at least. And he carried the boy and started running. Slowly at first, panting hard, but then picking up speed as he fought off the exhaustion. "I need to hurry!" He said and looking back he saw a team of grunts on large wolves getting ready to give chase no doubt.

"Earth, Wind, Fire, Water! Heed my call!" He cried in desperation, knowing it was too late.

More blue energy seeped into his body, and he put on an extra burst of speed. Then he tripped over a root – the desert past the waterfall was full of those big black roots – and fell.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground, but he was fully conscious of the fact that the Black Rock Assassins were gaining on him.

CHAPTER SIX - RESCUE

Mongra the Farseer fell. . . at the foot of Warcheif Thrall's feet. The Warchief was big, sitting on a black wolf that looked like it would rip you apart any second with no thought whatsoever. In the Warcheif's arm was a large hammer, black metal, stout brown wood. Behind him was his horde: Two thousand grim faced grunts in front, a few hundred troll berserkers, and a kodo or two scattered around in the grand army.

They had heard reports of the Black Rock Clan's location, and decided to launch a pre-emptive strike against the clan. It was only coincidence that they had come just in time to see an orc - a fellow farseer it looked like - running from a band of dirty and vicous Black Rock Orcs, and with a human in his arm no less.

This man was obviously a friend. Beside Thrall, on white wolves that looked old and tired, sat three of his most trusted farseers. Thrall turned to him now, "We need to save this orc. He obviously has great power within him; looks to be a farseer no less!"

"Yes, that would be a wise choice. He has a human under his arm, so he could be no friend of the Black Rocks." Zar said. He was the oldest of the trio of farseers who had journeyed across the plains. They had come from the cold harsh mountains of Northrend, where they had been fighting the undead.

"We should deal with the Black Rock Clan first - we need to focus on the war." Walg said. He had bright eyes that could see through your soul, but the expression on his face was always one of laziness. A deception no doubt, but who could tell with the crazy Walg Farseer?

"Yes, guards!" Thrall shouted, "One of you take this fellow warrior and his human companion to the nearest town that is safely within our territory. Make sure nobody harms them."

"Yes, warchief." A small runt said, stepping forward. He had crafty cunning eyes that bespoke of trickery and deciet. "I would be happy to," he also had an oily voice that made Thrall distinctly uncomfortable.

The Black Rock Clan was stepping forward to the challenge, the seven blade masters were routing the troops. It would be a showdown, no doubt. No need to enter the labrynths. That was when Thrall noticed something strange. . . The mountains were breaking apart!

"Look at that, what is that?" He asked, amazed.

"Farseer magic; an old kind. No doubt it was from the farseer we just saw. Now this proves he is indeed a farseer, and he launched an attack on the Black Rock Clan. We will need to reward him later on," Zar said.

"You are right, of course." Thrall said. Turning to his army, he shouted, "Warriors! Prepare for battle!"

The army let out a loud roar, "For DoomHammer!" They shouted and charged.

The Black Rock Clan had suffered a magical assualt; their homes had been destroyed but they pulled through in no time. THey were the best trained after all, following an old Orc routine where merciless and ruthlessness were placed at a very high pedestal.

They were an organized force: 1300 green orcish warriors, all on fierce, growling wolves. They were spread out on the black plains and there was about a few kilometers between them and Thrall's army. The opposing army was little more than a smudge on the horizon but it was growing larger.

"Prepare yourselves, my warriors, Thrall is attacking." One of the blademasters said.

The Black Rock Clan let out a roar.

"On my mark, Chaaaaaarge!"

They ran full speed at Thrall's army, chanting along the way: "Black Rock! Black Rock! Black Rock!"

Then they clashed. The battle waged on all day and into the evening. Both sides took heavy casulties. The three farseers and Thrall stood in the back, occasionally shoving bursts of chain lightning in enemy grunts that came too close. Soon there was only a hundred or so warriors left on the battle field, the ground was bloody and filled with dead bodies.

The Seven Blademasters were at the front of their army; breathing heavy and injured in various places. Behind them, about sixty highly trained warriors.

Thrall was relaxed and calm as every, his three farseers looked relaxed and calm as well. His personal guard numbered thirty fierce raiders on black wolves. Ten or so normal grunts had survived.

They were almost evenly matched, and they stared at each other in fascination; two armies on a bloody battlefield. Then Thrall broke the silence by striding forward in the middle.

"A challenge!" He cried out. "A challenge!" His army took up the cry.

The Seven Blademasters strode forward as a team, arrogant and bloodthirsty. "Oh really, Warchief?" They said sneering. What was strange was they said it together as if they were telepathically connected. "You wish to face us one on one? You can have your farseers if you like."

Thrall shook his head, smirking widely. "No, seven on one."

They blanched. "Such confidence. You are a fool, Thrall. We will take your challenge." They replied at once.

"We will have an arena, whoever steps out loses and will have to surrender their heads. Give me your word, on your honor, that you will follow this rule, then we will have the match."

"That applies to you as well." They said.

Thrall smiled widely. "Of course. Zar, make the circle."

At once Zar jumped off his white wolf, a large staff in hand. He slowly made the circle in the blood-dried mud. "There, let the contest begin."

Thrall stepped off his wolf, and walked in the middle of the circle. The Seven Blademasters looked warily at him.

"Are you cowards? Are you going to fight me or stand there all day?" Thrall shouted. "Come at me, you craven traitors."

At once they strode in the circle, swords in hand. Thrall did nothing.

They advanced, slowly at first, then picking up speed as Thrall backed away slowly. Finally they charged.

Thrall got a look of pure terror on his face and started running away. The Seven Blademasters started laughing and gave chase. Thall was now at the edge of the deeply engraved circle. If he went out, he would have to surrender.

"You lose, Thrall. You cannot face us and defeat us all." They said smirking.

"I give up." Thrall said, grinning like a maniac. He stepped off the circle.

The Seven Blademasters' eyes widened. What the hell was going on. The Three Farseers - Thrall's farseers - lifted their staffs. At once Walls sprung up, blue see-through walls that looked like they were made of glass. The Seven Blademasters jumped at the walls, and pounded on them but they couldn't get out.

Thrall waved at them, grinning cheerfully. "Kill these traitors now." He said to his farseers.

The Farseers stepped forward and swung their sticks at the blue wall. The Wall started to shrink. They kept pounding at the wall. The wall shrunk more and more.

"What are you doing you fools? Help us!" The Seven Blademasters shrieked.

Their army - eyes widened in terror - came out of their stupour and charged. Thrall's rear guard met their charge and a feirce battle took place: sixty trained warriors versus thirty of Thrall's guards. The winner would be clear.

The Seven Blademasters cried out in terror as the walls shrunk even more, almost touching them now. They were all squeezed in. Then the farseers swung their sticks in tandem and the wall dissapeared. The Seven Blademasters dissapeared also. In the middle of the circle was a small, dark blue, battle.

Thrall ran up and grabbed the bottle and stuffed it in a side pocket in his vest. "Retreat! Retreat!"

The Black Rock Clan, the remaining sixty warriors or so gave no chase. At the end of the day, Thrall had thousands of warriors to fall back on, his city of Orcs was strong. The Black Rock Clan's leaders were gone. They were finished.

Thrall was the clear victor.

But the sixty warriors would band together, and attack like ants. They would slowly snip away at the towns on the outskirts of the great city of the orcs, and would forever be a nuisance, if only a minor nuisance.

But you can't have everything, eh?

NEXT CHAPTER: CHAPTER SEVEN: THRALL'S OFFER

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